These remnants, rotting keepsakes of words and pictures are mnemonically residual. They are scryed, interfaces utilizing misfired sigilings, systems of incomplete quasi-alchemical call-signs and proto-symbologies loosely based upon borrowed (and in some cases stolen) artificially charged devices. When assembled into specific schemas, this soft machinery marks as it contains, and thus constructs the Terminal House.

30.3.11

Prepare

Camouflage this secret door to your secret room with secret and sad words written in invisible blood from lies that were never told as you prepare yourself beneath sheets and dust and rotting furniture in a house that has washed onto the bank of the River Lethe. Hide from Time who is afraid to enter. Mnemonically siphon what you can from those three days of darkness that became thirty-three days that became three hundred and thirty-three that became three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three, and synthesize an antidote to transmute the toxins of antitime so you can remember whom you are and whom you used to be and what you are supposed to do. Prepare your beast and your armor and your shield and your sword. Prepare to ride out for your great battle, and prepare for your holy crusade without a God and without a Devil.

I found the last road I now must walk. I walk with a pack of stray dogs, a brick from the tower of Babel, pockets of nuclear winter ash and a talisman from the Dog God of the Mound.

PROTOENCYCLOPEDIST, CODEXORCIST & LYCANTHROPIC HOUSEKEEPER

I lay in an invisible place with dogs and devils and dragons in the cellar of a house made from the bone, skin and hair collected from my headless God, who rambles through the empty worlds above, between and below. My body and mind for you as you seek what you need to sustain yourself, my headless somnambulist Lord of endless cycles of redeath and unbirth, as I sleep, dream and die and regenerate from dust and ash and salt and blood and shadow for you. My blankets are sewn from the cloth of maps that reveal the secret tunnels of the Nine Circles found in the now abandoned and sunken towers of Heaven. My pillowcases are stuffed with the feathers of fallen angels and the mildewed pages from the forbidden books inscribed with the unspeakable names of those that watch and wait as their ladders spire into the sky from the bottomless pits of Hell. During this first and last year of antitime times nine, siphon these days with me in a place where time does not touch. I will return your head.

The Yog, Yug and Yig

I AM THE FIXED AND I AM THE VOLATILE. I AM THE DROWNED, THE BURIED AND THE BURNT. THE FIRST LIGHT AND LASTING DARKNESS. I AM THE SLEEPING YOG AND I AM THE DREAMING YIG. I AM THE ALPHA OF MATTER, THE ODIAN AND THE OMEGA OF TIME, THE OBIAN. I AM THE PRIMAL AND THE APPEX OF SPACE, THE SLEEP WALKING YUG.

"Welcome to my house. I'm delighted you could come. I'm certain you will find your stay here most illuminating. Think of me as your unseen servant, and believe that during your stay here I shall be with you in spirit. May you find the answer that you seek. It is here, I promise you."